


Roj Blake, and Other Phobias

by aralias



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Coming Out, Episode: s02e03 Weapon, Episode: s02e04 Horizon, Episode: s02e05 Pressure Point, First Time, In Vino Veritas, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avon is not gay, and he’s not attracted to Blake. He’s just confused. And drunk. He’s very drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roj Blake, and Other Phobias

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to x_los and elviaprose, as usual.
> 
> I think of this fic sort of as the love child between some of my last few fics - Human Nature (1st person Avon) and Atmospheric Pressures (sex without first talking through the consequences). 
> 
> Like lots of my fics, it's heavily inspired by a whole ream of 2nd phase B/A fics about one or other of them not being gay, most of which I found unsatisfactory. Interestingly it's also (subconsciously) quite a lot like Predatrix's v good 'Eight Inches to Mansize' (which isn't about being gay, but is about Avon being a fail), though I'd almost totally forgotten that fic, so I didn't do it on purpose - this time.
> 
> My fic is also definitely a response to [this kink meme prompt](http://b7-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/351.html?thread=142687#t142687): 
> 
> _Blake/Avon. One night on the flight deck, they finally give in to building lust and have wild, frantic sex with each other. Afterwards, Blake freaks out and insists that he is 100% straight._
> 
> Though obviously this is the other way around. But then I tend to think of Blake as gay, and I tend to think of Avon the same way as I think of the author of 'A Terrible Aspect'.
> 
> As well as that prompt, it's also an answer to how up and down their relationship is at the beginning of series 2, and in particular how much they seem to like each other in 'Weapon'.
> 
> In my house we call this fic 'Notgayvon'.
> 
> I, too, wish it wasn't quite this long.

We had survived IMIPAK. So had Servalan, but Vila still considered it a cause for celebration. He'd been drinking since the call had come in from the slave girl. Gan had joined him soon afterwards, and I admit even I felt sufficient relief at having a threat to my life suddenly removed that I was two glasses in before I quite realised what I was doing.

Cally brought us some music, and Jenna left the Liberator in the hands of the automatics to dance with Vila in front of the flight-deck sofa. Both of them were very good, though they can't have grown up learning the same dances. They both had natural rhythm, I suppose. Anyway, they worked something out.

Cally, meanwhile, allowed me to set up a game of Billet. I then proceeded to thrash her for thirty minutes. Perhaps I should have gone easier on her, but she would have noticed, and (unlike most of us) she’s a good loser. Vila took over from her after a particularly humiliating defeat, wagering money on his own victory. The game is a little different when I play with Vila – in that the object becomes to _cheat_ as much as possible without the other person noticing. It's difficult with such a simplistic game, but that's what makes it interesting. I was fairly drunk by this time. That’s probably why he beat me. Narrowly. But I minded less than usual. By this time, Jenna was dancing with Gan – slowly, her head against his chest.

Only Blake seemed unable to embrace the party atmosphere, though he tried. He was speaking animatedly to Cally when I looked up from the game – but he wore the wrong smile. I've seen Blake happy – not often, but it’s happened. I've also seen him pretend to be happy. It's not hard to tell the difference.

I suppose, for him it wasn't much of a triumph at all. Yes, we hadn't been killed, but he couldn't get at IMPIAK. If he did, he couldn't use it – not without killing me and Gan and himself, anyway, and I don't think even Blake is that dedicated to the cause of mayhem and destruction. He also couldn't get back into the Weapons Development Base any time soon, or not easily. The Federation seemed to know we were coming. We’d have to do something else, something unexpected. Blake would have to think of a new plan, and he didn't have one – yet. For my part, all that was just further cause for celebration.

I'd had another three – or possibly five, I'm not sure – drinks by the time he and I met on the sofa. Blake, I think, was sober or near enough. He'd volunteered to take the watch, which was a good thing because nobody else would have done it. Cally might have, but she'd gone to bed by this point. Gan, too. Vila and Jenna were sitting on the floor, giggling and talking in low voices about other times they'd escaped justice. They were competing, I think, to see who had the most ludicrous story. Blake caught my eye, and his mouth twitched into a smile (genuine this time – the amusement of a tolerant adult watching children). I smiled back at him – one of _my_ genuine smiles, one of the few I have in my arsenal. As I say, I was drunk. It seemed the thing to do.

The Billet game was still laid out in front of us, and I was turning over one of the large pieces in my hands like a laser probe while Blake and I talked about ... oh, something unimportant. I can't really remember, now. Something safe and technical, anyway. One of his hands was in his lap, fingers drumming against his thigh, and the movement must have been distracting because my eyes kept returning to the hand and the thigh. When it happened, I slid my gaze back to the game board in front of us, but _that_ wasn't very interesting, either, at the moment.

Vila had re-set the board after his victory, thinking to con me out of further credits. Absentmindedly I put the piece I’d been holding back on the board, three spaces on from its original position, rather than back on the starting square. Blake moved another out to meet mine. We don't play often, he and I, but I'm willing to admit that I like it when he is willing to engage.

He lost after a fairly short interval of time, even with six or seven glasses of soma in my system. He's better than that usually – he must have been distracted.

"Ah well. You can't win all the time," I told him. Of course, I meant the game, though there may have been an additional edge of sympathy around it that led him to say,

" _Once_ would be nice." 

Since he has beaten me at various games in the past, I knew he wasn't talking about the matter immediately at hand. He was _definitely_ distracted, dwelling on our recent excursion planet-side. Sometimes, I can read him like a book. The others are less good at it, even Jenna who wants to believe she knows what he's thinking.

Now I gave him a sardonic, knowing look – this situation didn't even need a put-down from me; Blake would probably provide one of his own. Sure enough, he shook his head with apparent embarrassment.

"Sorry, I'm not looking for sympathy."

"Good. Because you won't get it."

"Not from you?"

"Not when we've beaten Servalan at her own game, yet again. Escaping not with the weapon we wouldn't have used anyway, but still in possession of the supercomputer she would sell her own grandmother to acquire. Both grandmothers."

"I doubt Servalan is close to her relatives," Blake said.

"I doubt Servalan is close to anyone for longer than it takes her to stick the knife in their back. The point still stands, I think."

Blake inclined his head to the side, conceding the point. I could almost see the gloom lifting. After a while, he said, eyes twinkling,

"Do grandmothers fetch much on the secondary market?"

"Thinking of trading yours in? As it happens, I don't know. Why, do I look like the sort of man who would?"

"No," Blake said.

"Vila, on the other hand—" I began, but, having leant back in the seat to stare at the area where Vila and Jenna had been sitting only moments ago, I established that neither of them were there any more.

When they left I have no idea. Cally's music was still playing in the background and the murmuring of the bass must have disguised the talking and then the absence of it. I hoped for Jenna's sake that they weren't off having sex somewhere – there was no reason to think they were, but it was more than usually possible given the alcohol that had sloshed around the flight deck earlier. Inhibitions were lowered all round. Standards, too, in this case. I suppose if they were having sex, it would mean Jenna had given up on Blake, which (as he seemed to have no inclinations that way) was probably a good thing.

Everyone else was gone then, and I was alone on the flight deck with Blake. That was probably a sign I should go and leave him to his watch, but I was tired enough that I didn't want to move, even if it would be in the direction of my bed. My arm was still slung over the back of the sofa from where I'd twisted in my seat to look for Vila. I couldn't be bothered to move it, though I tend to keep my limbs to myself most of the time. Blake, conversely, sprawls, as though he owns this ship and everything on it. Of course he does – with the exception of a few small items. My things. Me. Though sometimes he seems to forget those exceptions.

" _I_ think," Blake said, leaning towards me, "you're the kind of man who used to visit his grandmother every week, helped with the shopping, and brought crystallised pineapple round for birthdays and other special occasions."

He was joking, though he didn't look exactly like he was joking. His eyes were— Well, there's a reason he manages to convert so many to his cause. The eyes are probably something to do with it. And the mouth … By which I mean that, unfortunately, he speaks well. Optimists do.

I made a face at him. I've worked hard to establish myself as an unscrupulous bastard, and he was trying to destroy all that work in an evening – which is typical Blake behaviour. Irritating, in other words. He raised his eyebrows, and remained silent. I didn't have to answer him; I never have to answer him.

"I've never helped anyone with their shopping," I told him.

"No?"

"No, you can pay people to do that for you. You can pay people to do almost anything," I continued to distract him from pursuing the other topic.

Neither of my grandmothers much cared for pineapple, but he was spot on in intention. Marzipan, generally, from the black market. When you're old in the Federation, you cease (the government believes) to be much use, and so they gradually decrease your income, even if you're an Alpha and you earned it during your work-life. I don’t appreciate that sort of thing happening to people I care about.

"You know you can even pay people to help fight your war for you," I told Blake instead of any of this. "You don't need to rely on goodwill and Vila."

Actually this was an idea I'd been thinking about for a while – after all, why have money and not use it? The first time I'd discovered the Liberator treasure room, I'd imagined using the contents to buy myself a luxurious residence, and a set of body guards, but in essence I was trying to buy myself something else more intangible. Safety – the only thing worth having. If I didn't start investing now, I might never get to that residence. It seemed unlikely that I would ever find myself in a situation as hazardous as our current one.

Blake tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. He was seriously considering it, then. I watched the fingers caressing the lip for a moment, biting my own in sympathy – and then let my gaze slide downwards, onto his lap, and then, quickly, back onto the game board that still showed evidence of my recent victory.

"That didn't work out very well with the Terra Nostra," Blake said.

"The Terra Nostra have a lot of money," I said lazily, shutting my eyes and leaning my head back against the sofa. I was drunk, and I was tired. I was also winning this argument, I could feel it. "They also turned out to be working for the Federation. Not everyone is – you just need to work on some screener questions."

"Do you work for the Federation?" he offered.

"How do you feel about destroying tyranny?" I countered.

"Favourably," he told me.

“Good. Well, you start Monday. See – it’s easy."

"You're certainly making it _sound_ easy," Blake said. “At this rate, the Federation will be defeated by lunchtime tomorrow."

I cracked an eye open, and saw him smiling at me. There was almost no melancholy in it, so I smiled back again. Two real smiles for Blake in the course of one evening – I really was drunk. And exhausted, let's not forget exhausted. With someone else I might have hoped they would ignore or forgive the lapse, but Blake couldn't resist commenting on it, pushing his luck.

"You're being very supportive."

Fortunately I had an answer prepared for that one. "I'm drunk," I told him.

"You're being very supportive _in_ _general_ ," Blake corrected me. That didn't seem likely, and my expression as I leant back up into a sitting position, my eyes fully open again, must have prompted him to elaborate. "You agreed with me today about going after IMIPAK. You agreed we should go after the Terra Nostra—"

"Ah. Well, your ideas are less wrong than usual," I said, grinning to ensure he heard the insult about his previous ideas. "It's just good business to encourage you."

"Are you encouraging me?" Blake asked.

"Are you encouraged?" I returned with another grin.

Blake licked his lips, uncertain perhaps of how to deal with my approval, rather than my disdain. I could have told him not to worry – I didn't think it would last.

"Avon," Blake said after a moment, "how drunk are you, exactly?"

"I don't know exactly," I said. "Less than Vila on an average afternoon—"

I realised belatedly that Blake had asked this because the hand I'd left on the back of the sofa hadn't stayed where I'd left it. It had crept upwards, and twisted itself into Blake's hair. I must have been toying with his curls. He was right – I must be very drunk. More than I realised. I have no idea how long my hand had been there. I began to draw it back, but Blake seemed to follow it, though I were tugging him towards me, rather than releasing him. By the time my hand had returned to my lap, Blake was most of the way onto my side of the sofa. I opened my mouth to protest, and found myself pushed back by Blake's body as he kissed me. _Blake_ kissed me. Blake kissed _me._

I have no idea why he thought this would be welcome, or even whether he’d thought that far ahead. Until that point I had no idea he was attracted to me, or even that he was attracted to men. _I_ am not attracted to men, and I'm certainly not attracted to _Blake._ He— That is— Well, I can see why some people – some _women –_ _might_ be attracted to him, but it's an objective observation. I can see why women might be attracted to _me_ , and I'm not attracted to myself. Most of the time I don't even like myself. Most of the time I don't like _Blake._ I certainly don't _like_ him – it's nothing personal. No, it _is_ personal – the regular dislike is, the dislike formed around the fact that a dangerous maniac who endangers my life on a constant basis – but my disinterest in him sexually is not personal. I'd just never thought of him in that light before. Why would I?

So I have no idea why I kissed him back, clutching at his hair with the hands I'd only just managed to remove from his curls earlier. Alcohol, probably. And there was no denying it felt good, the purely tactile sensation of being kissed, aggressively, by someone who knew what they wanted and what they were doing. Perhaps there was also some part of me that thought I could use it against him at some point – we were getting on well now, but we wouldn’t always be. If I knew he wanted me, then I might be able to hold that over him.

It was also exciting. That sounds like the _logic_ of the drunkard, but actually it's true. Anyone could walk in and catch us, catch _Blake_ straddling me, his tongue down my throat and his hands beginning to wander away from the chaste paths across my arms, and down to the area where my shirt was tucked into my trousers. Anyone could walk in and see Blake desperate for me. Oh, yes – it was definitely exciting.

I think I was also high on air loss. When Blake broke away from the kiss to suck on my neck above the collar of my shirt, I found myself gasping for breath.

 _"Avon,"_ Blake groaned, like my name was suddenly an endearment, and then he returned to kiss my mouth again and I kissed him back again.

"You're not too drunk, are you?" Blake asked in another gap between our lips. "You _would_ tell me."

He kissed me again, though, before I could answer. His hands were busily working now at the top of my trousers – and even more alarmingly, I could feel something hard pressing against my leg at about the level of Blake's groin. He was aroused, he wanted me – well, of course I knew that, but it's one thing to know it objectively and quite another to feel another man's cock digging into your thigh. His hips were spasming slightly, as though he was trying to fuck me through our clothes. It was alarming, but not as alarming as it would have been without those nine drinks. Alcohol has a lot to answer for.

By now Blake was wrestling in earnest with my trousers – tight red leather, even tighter now after our fumblings. I'm not attracted to Blake, but my cock was responding to someone rubbing it with intent, and I admit I was hard by this point and about as capable of thinking clearly as Blake was. I believe I may have expressed a desire to have worn something looser. Blake laughed throatily, desperately, and we got the trousers down to my knees.

I don't know what I expected to happen at this point, but what did happen was that Blake crawled down my body until his mouth was level _not_ with my mouth but with my _cock_. All my blood had rushed there at once and I had none left in my brain. I wanted desperately for something to happen to stop this.

"You're definitely not too drunk?" he asked again, and I said,

 _"Demonstrably,"_ and pushed him down, because at that point I would have said anything to get anyone to suck me off.

He closed his lips around me. Blake's lips, Blake's mouth sliding down my cock, and his tongue rubbing against me. I've been sucked off by women before. I tried to think of them – to remember how that had felt and why I'd enjoyed it, but my eyes kept flickering open and I would see my cock thrusting in and out of _Blake's_ mouth, and my hand grasping Blake's hair.

Blake is not a person you can easily ignore, or confuse with someone else. He was also very good at what he was doing – he must have practiced. Often. And he must have enjoyed the practice. Blake has an oral fetish, you see. I'd noticed it before, absently – without intent. I'd had no idea while I'd been watching him biting on his fingers that he would love sucking my cock, but he did. I could hear him moaning with pleasure and greed around the flesh (my flesh, my _cock_ ) in his ( _Blake's_ ) mouth, so I knew he was getting off on it. Clearly he was as queer as they come, though I hadn't noticed it before.

I gripped his hair and tried to pretend I was with someone else – even as I imagined what it would feel like to come in Blake's arrogant mouth. God, he deserved it. And I did want it. Oh yes, I wanted it – I won't deny it. The primitive urge to dominate is stronger than rational considerations.

That must have been why he didn't let it happen. Just as I thought I was about to come, he pulled back even as I tried to hold him down.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" I demanded – something, I'm sure you'll agree, that I should have asked much, much earlier.

“Sorry. I’m being selfish," he said, not sounding apologetic at all as he surged back up my body to shove his tongue (the same tongue that had been exploring my foreskin moments ago) back into my mouth.

I wanted to resist, but he'd wrapped one of his hands around my cock, punishingly hard, and the bottom had dropped out of my brain again. That's a sensation Blake must be relatively familiar with – which perhaps explains why he was able to press on with his agenda while I (more rational, generally) was unable to fight against it. With his other hand, he unfastened his own trousers and pushed them down roughly. Then he brought one of _my_ hands, my right hand, down and under, and closed it around—

Yes, I have had my hand on Blake's cock. It's not an experience I expected ever to ... experience, and I felt completely unprepared for it.

I remember reaching down into a woman's underwear for the first time, over the mound of soft hair and into her. I did it slowly, warily. I remember it felt a lot like the only time I ever tried to _physically_ steal something (not really my thing – I prefer to move numbers around from the safety of my own terminal). It felt like something forbidden, that any minute now I would be apprehended and arrested. Then, of course, it became mundane to the extent that I stopped noticing it. Nothing but a prelude to more extravagant pleasures.

It's probably a metaphor derived from circumstances, but _this,_ touching Blake,felt more like the first time he and I had faced the unknown together, something that actually hasn’t become mundane as it usually leads to people trying to kill us. That sort of thing tends to keep you awake. For me and Blake, that first time was a stroll through a transfer tube into an alien spaceship. _That_ was his idea, too. I remember grinning then, grimly. I didn't particularly want to do _that_ , either – two men had already died or gone insane onboard that flight deck – though I’m sure the idea of exploring an alien ship would appeal to some. I only went because there seemed to be no other choice. Death, I suppose, or Cygnus Alpha. Both of which had extremely limited appeal.

Blake hadn't given me a choice this time, either. I'd barely had time to think about the possibility of touching Blake's cock before I was, suddenly, touching it, gripping it, with Blake's fingers wrapped around mine to show how hard he wanted it. Hard – Blake is a glutton for punishment. If I'd ever thought about how Blake would like to be fucked (something I have never done, for obvious reasons), I would probably have said he'd like it hard. Uncompromising. And he certainly seemed to like it.

I _think_. As I say, I was drunk – I have only the vaguest recollections.

Blake's cock felt like— That is, I think—Well, it probably felt something like mine, although the angle was obviously the reverse of what I'm used to. I think it may have been larger, considerably larger, though I …  wasn't in the right frame of mind to make an accurate comparison.

At any rate, I tried to convince myself that it was my cock in my hand – attributing the feeling of Blake jerking hard on my own cock to the movements I was obviously making with _my_ hand on _a_ cock.

It was difficult with Blake's hips pounding into my fist, though. He wouldn't let me lead, even in a hand job. Either that or he was just desperate and not thinking clearly. Blake's mouth was also less occupied now than it had been – he'd moved down to bite at my neck again, which I admit felt good – the sharp pain an effective counterpoint to the wash of pleasure (as I said, Blake knew what he was doing). In between bites and kisses, he was able to use his mouth to speak to me, remind me who I was with and, incidentally, how much worse it could get –

 _"You're so sexy. Mm, such a sexy, wonderful bastard ... That’s right. Harder. Oh, god, I’ve wanted ... mm, I want–- Avon, I want to be inside you – you'll let me, won't you? I've wanted to fuck you-- I've wanted to make_ love _to you since-- Oh, fuck, Avon, yes, that’s it, that's--"_

I don't recall that I said anything to this chain of broken confession. I don't think I was able to. I came on a high of terror and adrenalin.

Orgasm, obviously, feels good, so I admit – it felt good. It felt really good, even with Blake's weight on me, and Blake's lips against my neck, and Blake's cock still fucking into my fist until he too came, and slumped down on top of me. Yes, it felt good. But that's what orgasm is. It didn't mean anything – except that sex feels good, and alcohol lowers a man's standards.

It didn't mean _anything._

*

I woke up several hours later on the flight-deck couch. My back ached, making it abundantly clear that I should never have allowed something like this to happen. As though I needed to be reminded.

 _Blake_ was ... nowhere to be seen. He must, I thought, have left me to sleep it off (now I cast my mind back, I could dimly remember Blake trying to lift me off the sofa with limited success as I tried to bat him away), and returned to the watch. When I levered myself up into a sitting position to glare at him, though, I found it was now several hours into Vila's stint on the flight deck.

"Morning sunshine," Vila said as I (foolishly) tried to duck back out of sight. Too slow, then – and, on second thoughts, Vila would have seen me when he'd come in. It was, therefore, far too late to hide, but fear makes you do stupid things.

I must have slept for more than six hours – and Blake hadn't stayed, or tried to move me again, after his watch had ended, though it would have been obvious to anyone who knew me that I would dislike being abandoned, and to the ridicule of my peers. He _could_ have woken me – I hadn't been that drunk. Of course, I had been _drunk_ , really drunk, drunk enough to do something stupid or to let it happen to me, but it would have worn off ... while I'd been asleep. He could have woken me when he'd left to go to bed. Not _with me_ , I hasten to add. Blake could have gone to his own bed, and I could have gone to my own, separate bed, which is far too narrow to have supported us both. _Not_ that Blake was going to get an invitation, ever, or that I expected or _wanted_ to receive one from him.

Oh _god_. Did I look like someone who'd had sex and then fallen asleep in his clothes? I had no idea what I looked like. In a panic, I checked my trousers, praying they weren't still around my ankles and/or smeared with semen, but either Blake or I had managed to get them back on before I'd fallen asleep. They seemed blessedly clean, too. Something to thank Blake for, I suppose, though presumably the task involved a lot of rubbing of my crotch, so, on second thoughts, perhaps I shouldn't thank him – he probably enjoyed it.

"Sleep well?" Vila asked, the tone of his voice making it sound like it was an innuendo, and I thought –

_He knows._

Perhaps Blake had told him on the way out, dwelling on his unlikely conquest with relish while I was in the room but unable to defend myself. Perhaps they'd had a good laugh about how easy I'd been, how I'd obviously been desperate for Blake from the beginning (I _haven't_. I'm not desperate for Blake at all – unless you mean, desperate for him to act more sensibly or, failing that, to go away).

I assume I would have woken up, actually, if they had laughed – but Blake could have intimated it silently to Vila. Perhaps he hadn’t even done it on purpose. He can be unbearably smug sometimes – that would have tipped most men off. Or Vila could have simply guessed – he's not as stupid as he looks. Unfortunately. 

Paranoia is often more dangerous than whatever you're afraid of. Not in this case (very little is more dangerous than Blake), but often. I forced myself to stop panicking, to _think._ Vila might imagine he knew something, or he might not. What he did not have was _proof._ I could bluff this out, if I _stopped panicking._

What had he asked? Had I slept well.

"Not particularly," I told him, rising as smoothly as I could off the sofa. "I'd assumed – erroneously – that, because I'd seen Blake asleep on this sofa, it must be comfortable to lie on. What I've learned is that appearances can be deceiving, and that he can sleep anywhere."

True, actually. To some extent. Blake _can_ often be found dozing against the force-wall controls, but I've always assumed this was because he's a control freak who doesn't want to let others get on with the business of running _his_ ship, rather than because he actually likes sleeping there.

"You did it to emulate him?" Vila said, feigning shock. "I'll let him know. He'll be touched."

“I said I had no idea even he could be so foolish. It's not quite the same thing."

“I’ll tell him anyway,” Vila said. “When I see him. Oh – he’s gone back to his cabin, by the way.”

“Since he isn’t here, and his watch is over, I’d assumed he must have done. And? Why do you think I want to know?”

Jenna had said something similar to me the day before when I asked her whether she knew where Blake was. As it happened, I _had_ asked her because I’d thought she and Blake might be sleeping together. That Vila had used the same technique was more proof that he _knew,_ or at least suspected.

Jenna’s irritable reply had effectively convinced me she hadn’t succeed with Blake. Unlike me, she had no reason to deny it – in fact, I think she’d be proud of it, if she had. My own retort to Vila must have been considerably less convincing, because he simply looked bemused.

“I didn’t really. I just said it because you were talking about him, and he was probably here when you feel asleep.”

 _Oh yes,_ I thought. _He was here, all right._

“I often talk about Blake,” I said defensively.

Then I realised how _that_ sounded (worse, much worse, than what I’d been trying to distract him from – just a slip of the tongue, of course, but easy to misinterpret). It _was_ possible I could still recover – in most battles of wit, I tend to come off better than Vila. But then, whenever I’ve fought with Vila in the past, I haven’t been hungover and trying to forget that _Blake’s_ tongue had slipped several times last night – into my mouth and around my cock. I didn’t want to push my luck. And I didn’t trust myself. I also didn’t want Vila to look at me anymore, as though he was too surprised even to be amused. Perhaps he didn’t know – _before,_ but I might as well have it written on my forehead.

I chose not to say anything else, and just walked away – to my own cabin, _not_ to Blake’s.

If I’d run into someone on the way there, I’m not sure what I would have done. At this rate, probably blurted the whole thing out to the bemusement of Gan, or the disdain of Jenna. I have no idea what I would have said to Blake.

Fortunately, they were all still asleep. I reached my room and fell inside. The door sealed me in, and I pulled off my clothes – the clothes I’d been wearing when Blake and I had … done what we’d done together the previous night. I considered destroying them, but … well, I’m rather fond of the red leather (perhaps Blake had liked it too – I hadn’t asked him). I’d only worn the outfit on this one occasion. It seemed a shame. The trousers at least would have to be thoroughly cleaned before I could so much as think of wearing them again, though. For now, I left the whole pile of clothing on the floor, and stepped gratefully into the shower.

It’s obviously foolish to imagine that mere water can wash away a man’s sins as easily as it washes away dirt and grime, but I admit – there’s a pleasing symbolism to it. I tend to masturbate in the shower for just this reason. No evidence, no guilt. Today, I had no interest in doing anything of the kind, but I’d conditioned my body too well. Even stripping off my soiled clothes, the clothes Blake had fucked me in, made me hard. Perhaps, too, the fear of being caught on the way back to my room had gone to my cock – adrenaline does that. It’s natural, but annoying – too many times I’ve fallen against Blake in a battle, and had to hope he didn’t think the erection he _might_ have felt was anything to do with him. If he’d asked I could have told him the truth, but people don’t ask about that sort thing. Thank god for civilisation.

Right now the natural, Pavlovian reaction was especially annoying because I was, clearly, still dwelling on Blake. The more I tried not to think about him (while I was _in the shower,_ awkwardly aroused for reasons that were nothing at all to do with him), the more he seemed to be there. My treacherous brain stumbled across the worst of all possible outcomes – the idea of Blake coming to see whether I'd returned to my room, finding the door unlocked (no, I was _sure_ I’d locked it – it was not _possible_ that it wasn’t locked) and entering the steamy shower stall with me. He wouldn’t have time to undress (I could escape if he paused that long), so he’d still be fully clothed. Then he’d run his hands over my body, the spray turning his shirt damp and clinging. Damn him – why hadn’t he left me alone? Oh, I’m sure this was exactly where _he_ wanted to be. The words he’d crooned against my neck last night ( _I want to be inside you, I want to fuck you_ ) made it all to clear what he would do when he got here. The shower was filled with viscose liquids – that would make it easy for him. Naturally, I would protest, but Blake is the sort of man who gets what he wants. He’s forceful. I would be unable to fight him off—

I wrenched the water temperature down and stood shivering underneath it until my erection subsided. I _hadn’t_ touched myself, but I might have done. Circumstantial or not, it was dangerous. I did not equate Blake with sex; I did not _want_ to equate Blake (or any man) with sex, and I didn’t. I did _not._

But it seemed frighteningly possible for it to happen accidentally. It would be all right – eventually. But first I needed to pull myself together.

I dried myself and dressed – in grey leather: one of my least provocative outfits. I didn’t want Blake to think I was trying to entice him when the opposite was true, but I couldn’t bring myself to find something truly ugly (something of Vila’s, perhaps) to wear either. That would have prompted questions (why had I chosen to abandon my good sense?)(why indeed) that I would prefer not to answer.

As I zipped up my jacket, the door buzzer sounded.

 _Blake,_ I thought in sudden panic.It must be. Come to see whether I would let him screw me (I wouldn’t), or whether I wanted to go on a suicide mission with him to retrieve a super weapon from somewhere (not particularly). Or whether I just wanted to talk about what had happened (I didn’t want to, although I probably should).

I was fully dressed by this time, and so there was less risk than when I’d been in the shower, vulnerable and exposed, but I still felt the same rush of fear. I could pretend to be asleep, or absent – but I would have to face him eventually. 

“Avon?” Cally’s voice called from the other side of the door, and I felt my body relax.

Cally. It was only Cally.

I pressed the door-release button. Cally looked how I wanted to feel – serene. Today she wore a deep blue that seemed to echo the tranquillity of her mind. How I envied her.

In her hand she held a glass of familiar green gunge, which she held out to me.

“Vila and Jenna have already been to see me, complaining of headaches. I thought I would save you a journey, since neither of them seemed grateful for the walk to the med bay.”

In fact my head felt fine, my cold shower had cleaned out the cobwebs admirably. Meanwhile I’ve tasted Cally’s hangover cure before – she was kind enough to mix me one after Vila’s last birthday party. Calling the disgusting concoction ‘repulsive’ is too kind. I really didn’t want to drink it, but nor I did I want to waste the opportunity she’d given me to establish my alibi for the previous night.

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you, Cally,” I told her insincerely, taking the glass. Presumably I could throw it away once she was out of sight. “I feel terrible. I haven’t been that drunk in a long time.”

“Is that so?” Cally said. “Not at Vila’s party, perhaps?”

Ah – yes, well. I may or may not have sung something at Vila’s party – not very tunefully, apparently. I gather that’s something that has stuck in the minds of my crewmates.

“I drank more after you left last night,” I told her. That was probably true, although I wasn’t quite sure _when_ Cally had left. “In fact, I’m still feeling rather delicate.” A bald lie – I felt fine, but I wanted her to go so that I could tip her headache cure down the sink in privacy. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and lie down again.”

“Not at all,” Cally said. “We could all use more rest. I _have_ said this to Blake, but—”

My intercom chimed, cutting her off in the middle of a discussion of our beloved leader (that’s a joke. He’s barely even our leader, let alone beloved by any of us). Unfortunately I didn’t have time to feel much relief at the change of topic, because when I activated the comm., I heard Vila’s voice saying,

“Avon, if you’re awake, Blake wants you on the flight deck.”

 _Blake has already had me on the flight deck,_ I thought, suppressing a shudder. To Vila, I said,

“So, why are _you_ calling? Is Blake too busy to issue his orders personally?” Not a bad response. Somewhat uninspired, but it had the advantage of both obvious answers (yes, they are orders, and no – not too busy, but couldn’t be bothered) incriminating the original speaker. Vila ignored the trap.

“He’s inside Zen.”

“He’s _what?”_ I said.

“Remodelling,” Vila said. “I think that’s why he needs you, although he might just be lonely, it wasn’t entirely clear.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, too distracted by the idea of Blake pulling apart the computer that controlled our speed, course and _life support_ to realise that I’d fallen into a verbal trap of Vila’s. My answer (I’ll be right there) had fallen as a response to Blake’s potential loneliness, rather than his dangerous choice of morning activity. Fortunately, Blake had provided me with something even bigger to worry about.

 _“Stop him,_ if possible,” I told Vila, before cutting the connection. I tried to hand Cally the glass on my way out of the door, but she said,

“If you want it to work, you have to drink it, Avon. Not just hold it.”

“Really?” I said. “Because my head feels better already. It must be your soothing presence, Cally …”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. None of us mock Cally, except Blake, because I think we are all a little afraid of her. On our first meeting she beat the hell out of Blake, and then helped us destroy a Federation base. A few days later, she brained Vila and tried to kill the lot of us. Oh, I know that wasn’t her, but the point is that, though you might not think it too look at her, she’s a deadly and ruthless fighter. I think most of us, including Blake, also feel we want to protect Cally – that’s another reason we try not to upset her. It might sound as though those two motivations are directly opposed to each other, but they appear not to be. In any case, I didn't want to know what she might do if she found I'd lied to her.

I grimaced and downed the drink. It tasted better than I remembered – no, that’s a lie. It tasted worse. I handed the glass back to Cally, and strode off towards the flight deck trying (unsuccessfully) to get the taste of the drink off my tongue with my teeth.

Vila seemed to be alone when I arrived. He yawned and indicated a hole in the floor that hadn’t been there when I’d left – an open service hatch.

I knelt down, bracing myself against the floor with one hand, and peered into the hatch – Blake’s feet were several metres away, with the rest of him presumably some way beyond.

“You rang?” I said sardonically.

Blake chose not to engage with that one. "Zen's starboard detectors are offline," he told me instead, propping himself up on his elbows to look back at me. "We're low on power, so—"

“So the autorepairs won't be able to fix it in under three hours," I finished.

"And _we_ can't afford to go three hours without knowing what's behind us," Blake agreed. "Sorry, if I disturbed your _nap_."

Bastard. He was grinning as I climbed in after him. Although Vila's need to sleep all the time _is_ amusing, it doesn't mean the rest of us choosing to do it, too, from time to time is intrinsically hilarious. Cally was right – we did need a proper rest. But _Blake_ was right too – we couldn't go three hours without proper scans. And I didn't trust anyone else on this ship to make the necessary repairs. It would have to be me.

In most of the access tunnels beneath the ship there's about enough room to sit up if you don't mind curling in on yourself slightly. As I mentioned earlier, Blake is a natural sloucher so, though tall, it doesn't seem to trouble him. Conversely, I hate it. I'm not claustrophobic (not really viable on a spaceship) but I like to be able to stand up. If nothing else, crawling is not good for my spine – it's also hard to run away at any speed. The tunnels are about as wide as they are tall, meaning that one man can just about overtake another, or sit side by side, if the two of them really like each other.

As I approached Blake, who was stretched out across the floor, I saw there was a laser probe in his hand. He must have already started trying to make repairs. I do actually trust Blake in the execution of what I tend to think of as his hobby (engineering; rebellion being his vocation), but the computer elements of the sensors are not his field. I also get understandably twitchy about anyone trying to do extensive work on the same spaceship that _I_ am currently occupying. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Assuming you had any sense. Obviously _I_ am allowed to work on the ship, but technology is both my vocation and my hobby.

Blake explained what he'd done, and I tried to concentrate enough on what he was saying (and the imminent threat to our lives) to effectively harangue him about it. Unfortunately I was … distracted. I said before that two men could sit or lie side by side in these under-deck corridors. Actually, that’s not exactly what I said, but I think you get the idea. In order to inspect Blake’s work on Zen, I’d had to crawl alongside him, and we were now stretched out together, less than a hands’ breadth between us. I could smell Blake. Not in an especially unpleasant way, but he’d been working for a while before he’d called me. The air seemed heavy with the fact of him being here. And he’d left his shirt very open, for ease of movement I assume, and because it was hot and uncomfortable under the floor.

We have sometimes been this close before, but there was only _one_ other occasion when we’d been this close _and_ lying down. The previous night.

It was easy to spot the moment that Blake, too, made this connection. It was easy because he left the tunnel almost immediately afterwards, as though suddenly _he_ were claustrophobic.

That wasn’t what I had expected. I didn’t think even Blake would be foolish enough to try and induce me to have sex with him, there, under the decking, but … Well. I’d imagined he _would_ try and renew yesterday’s seduction in some way. After all, he had no way of knowing I _didn’t_ want that. He has a strong capacity for self-delusion, so in fact I assume he thought I _did_ want him to kiss me.

Perhaps he didn’t want to be tempted – Vila was, after all, on watch above us. Or perhaps Blake, too, had thought better of what we’d done last night. Rather than trying to fuck me again, what he wanted more than anything was to pretend it hadn’t happened. Well. It was the only sensible course – but that meant it was _less_ likely that Blake was following it, not more.

I tried to concentrate on the intricate wiring work that comprised Zen’s links with the starboard detectors, but it was difficult. I couldn’t get the idea of what might have happened under the deck out of my head. Blake could easily have had lubricant on him – he _had_ asked me to join him under the deck, so he could have been prepared. I would have been taken by surprise. I wouldn’t have wanted to make much noise with Vila still on the flight deck above. Blake wanted to be inside me, and Blake gets what he wants—

Eventually I had to get out of the tunnels, and walk around the deck in an attempt to shake it off.

“Finished already?” Blake asked. The tone of his voice implied that he knew I hadn’t and was amused that I was shirking so early.

“Cramp,” I told him flatly, without looking at him. He would, I thought, know I was lying if I looked at him, and he would know what had really driven me out. Back pain would perhaps have been more convincing, since I did in fact suffer from it acutely. But I also knew that Blake was considered rather good at massage. Where he learned this skill, I cannot say, because I've always left the room when the subject has come up, but I understand Cally in particular swears by the restorative properties of Blake's hands. Telling him that my back ached would be tantamount to asking him to abandon the revolution for an hour or two and rub oil into my naked skin ... and I ... I obviously did not want that, particularly not now. Or ever, but right now it would give Blake the wrong idea entirely.

As it happened, I was fortunate in my choice of imaginary ailment and in who was around to hear about it. After a minimum of sympathy for me, Vila began telling us both about the cramp _he_ was experiencing in his gut. That was sufficiently unpleasant (and _detailed_ ) to distract me from the thought of sex. Cally came in at some point, and had to be told all about Vila’s illness from the beginning. She interrupted half-way through to tell Blake off for not letting any of us rest and recover. I escaped back into the floor. I could hear the banal conversation continuing above me – and somehow I did the work that needed to be done.

As I closed the hatch again and stood, I considered going back to my room. But that would look like hiding. I generally spent my days on the flight deck, if Blake was there too – my aim being, of course, to catch him doing anything that he hadn’t told the rest of us about, and to give me the best chance of stopping any truly dreadful ideas before they’d had a chance to mature. I like to watch him – to ensure I spot any of those dreadful ideas.

So I made myself stay. I stayed through lunch with Blake and the others, and dinner with Blake. And the others. I thought, though I can’t be sure, that he looked at me more often than usual. He also smiled at me, and at the others, on several occasions – a real smile, as though he’d completely forgotten how angry he’d been the day before. Somehow he’d managed to put aside the fact that he’d lost a super weapon and was instead glad we’d escaped and shown Servalan what for – as I’d advised him to do. It wasn’t very likely, but it _was_ happening.

He made no move to touch me at all. He didn’t pull me into deserted corridors or dingy supply cupboards, or run his hands over me inappropriately as he passed. He didn’t even touch my arm to get my attention – perhaps he didn’t need to, as the two of us were always together, and I was watching him closely for any signs of misconduct. In fact, he didn’t indicate in any way that last night _had_ actually happened. I knew it had – I wouldn’t imagine something like that, but Blake was acting as though we were two perfectly unconnected, straight male colleagues. He must regret what had happened. Or he thought _I_ did. Naturally, I did. And perhaps I’d made my feelings so obvious that he felt he didn’t need to ask me about them. Or perhaps he was just waiting.

I spent the whole day tense in the expectation of a confrontation, or unasked-for sexual contact. There was none. I returned to my room exhausted and angry. I don’t know why I was angry. Residual and unspent anger at being taken advantage of the previous night, perhaps. If Blake had tried to kiss me again today, I could have shouted at him. He’d denied me that.

Unless, of course … Well now, I could confront him myself. Not a bad idea. If I didn’t, he would think he could do whatever he liked to me without recourse.

I repressed a shiver at that thought, and swung out of my room before I could change my mind. I knew where Blake’s room was, of course. In fact, it wasn’t too far from mine – not that any of the sleep-cabins are too far from each other. My room isn’t too far from Cally’s either. Or Vila’s.

Outside Blake’s door, I nearly turned back. Why was I inviting discussion of something I wished hadn’t happened? Was I mad? But I have never been afraid to confront Blake before. I would _not_ start now over _this._

I knocked. The door slid open, and I saw Blake swinging his legs down to the side of the lounge chair he’d been reclining in as he sat up. He’d been reading, and he put the data pad down on the chair next to him. As though he was going to need his hands for something else.

“Avon,” he said, as though he hadn't expected me, as though he were delighted and I was the most important person in the world to him and saying my name a pleasure in and of itself. Different from how he’d said my name against my neck yesterday, “ _Avon_ ,” but no less … inappropriate.

He got to his feet and began to close the gap between us. Behind me the door shut, trapping me in the room with him. My expression must have changed to one of alarm, because Blake said, looking concerned,

“Avon, are you all right?”

The answers ‘yes’ or ‘no’ were both equally incriminating. I also had no idea whether I _was_ all right or not. Blake’s shirt was very open at the neck, as usual, and he was still coming closer.

“Blake. We need to talk,” I said instead.

“Probably,” Blake agreed. “And that’s what you’ve come to do, is it? Talk?”

I’d come to shout at him, so I said, “Not exactly.”

On retrospect I can see why he interpreted this the wrong way, but I … wasn’t thinking clearly. Fear is an effective drug, just like alcohol. It practices on the mind in similar ways.

“Thank god,” Blake said. “I’ve been almost desperate all day—”

It happened so quickly that I was almost unable to stop it. Blake said, “But I knew I had to give—” and leaned down towards me.

He was going to kiss me again. I'd been imagining it all day, and now it was going to happen unless I did something about it. He thought I’d come here, to his bedroom, for sex. With him. He thought that when I said I didn't want to talk, what I’d meant was that I wanted him to use his mouth for something else he was equally good at. But that … that wasn't it at all.

“Last night was a mistake,” I said far less forcefully that I would have liked as Blake finished his own sentence:

 “––you space.”

I could almost feel his breath on my face.  I could smell him – male sweat, accented with male cologne. Blake. Blake inches away from me, and about to kiss me. I closed my eyes so that at least I couldn’t see him.

“Sorry?” Blake said.

“Last night,” I said jerkily.

“Yes?”

“It was a mistake.”

“Ah,” Blake said, and stepped back.

“I was drunk,” I continued, judging that he was far enough away, now, that I could open my eyes. I did; he was – far away, in almost the opposite corner of the room, biting on one of his nails and watching me closely. “I expect you noticed that, but you can't have realised how drunk I was. Therefore I do not blame you. Therefore I will not tell the others. But I barely knew I was having sex, let alone who I was having it with. That should have been obvious."

“Oh, it wasn't obvious," Blake said darkly. Offering excuses for his actions, though I hadn’t challenged him to explain himself.

"I did say, I didn’t blame you,” I pointed out.

"You don't blame _me?"_ Blake said.

Thunder crackled in his voice. That would have cowed some people, but I found it reassuring. We were back on familiar ground. I could respond to Blake's anger. I knew how to. Now, _this_ was merely an echo of conversations where Blake has shouted at me for not caring about the common man and I’ve shouted at him for only caring about the common man.

"I _said_ , I don't blame you,” I said with a tight politeness that I intended to be insulting, “but obviously I do. I am _trying_ not to. You’re not making it easy.”

“Get out,” Blake snarled.

So, he knew he’d lost. Blake never gives up an argument before he’s sure he’s exhausted every last recourse. I’d barely even started this time. But he knew he was on thin ice. Perhaps he even feared what else I had to say.

But we would have to keeping working with each other. We would have to see each other around the ship – so, I thought, _All right. I’ll let him have this one._ I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse him of the very worst of it, to use the correct name for what he’d done to me, though I could have done.

I gave him what was probably a sick-looking smile, my eyebrows raised to make sure he knew that I’d noted his surrender, his _guilt._ I spread my hands.

“All right, I’ll go. And we won’t speak of this again.”

“Funny,” Blake said with false good-humour. “I’ve never thought of you as a coward before, Avon. Repressed, perhaps. Self interested, certainly, but not a coward.”

That hurt, though it shouldn’t have done. I felt myself lashing out in retaliation before I could stop myself.

“Well now, I’ve never thought of you as the sort of man who’d take advantage of a semi-conscious drunk who didn’t know who or what he was sleeping with.”

“Get _out_ ,” Blake repeated, as angry as I have ever seen him. I turned, slamming my hand against the door release button, and left.

I’d imagined, before, that I would feel better after confronting him. I didn’t really, though I _did_ feel safer. I knew Blake wouldn’t follow me. I didn’t check the lock after my own door shut behind me. I was no longer in fear of my virtue – after all, I knew I didn’t have any.

*

Blake and I barely looked at each other the next day, though I think both of us were … let’s say, anxious … about what the other might do, if left unobserved. We followed each other from room to room, as usual. The only difference was that I glared at the wall just past his ear, rather than at him, and I had to answer questions that he directed to the others, because he didn’t direct any to me at all. Childish, but then that's Blake all over. He couldn't do what he does, if he didn't (childishly) _believe_ change was possible, that there are honest men out there, that any of us could ever be truly free from society's expectations.

After a few hours, he stormed out in the middle of a discussion about what we should do next. It was clearly Cally's fault – she was arguing that we should rest, stop the fight for a moment – but somehow it was still _me_ who got the blame. The boy who cried wolf, I suppose. My reputation working against me.

"What are you two fighting about this time?" Gan asked as Blake's shirt-tails whipped out of sight into the corridor. “I’m getting confused. You were getting on well yesterday, weren’t you?”

"We're not fighting," I said flatly.

Gan let it go. That was good of him. Or perhaps he simply took me at my word. Whichever it was, it was welcome. I find his presence almost soothing at times.

As I'd expected, Blake returned almost immediately afterwards – worried, I think, that the rest of us might have highjacked the Liberator and taken her off to a pleasure planet in his absence. I hadn't bothered to follow him for just this reason.

 _His_ presence wasn't soothing at all, but I liked knowing where he was. If he was striding around the flight deck snarling at people, he wasn’t off explaining his behaviour (or more especially, the _cause_ of his behaviour) to Jenna in another room.

The starboard sensors that I’d ‘fixed’ the day before failed again towards the end of the afternoon (not my best work, no – but I’m sure you know why that was), and I had to crawl back under the floor. Blake hadn’t even ordered me to do it, but then he didn’t have to. I’d heard Zen’s announcement, just as he had. The sensors had to be fixed, if I wanted to survive. We didn’t _need_ to speak to each other at all, really.

When, eventually, the sensors came back on, we discovered we were being tailed by three pursuit ships. Blake didn’t thank me for fixing the sensors in time to escape the ships. In fact, I got the distinct impression that he considered their being able to get so close at all to be, at least in part, my fault. As though the Federation was particularly interested in _me_ and _my_ quest to liberate the galaxy from its legal owners. Hypocrite as well as ingrate.

They were far enough away that all we needed to do was turn the Liberator away from our previous destination, and increase our speed slightly. We still hadn't stopped to re-charge (something else that was Blake's fault, _not_ mine), so that was all we could do. However – it was effective and solved the problem. Blake promised a rest when we reached the edge of the Spiral galaxy. Nobody else would go out that far, he pointed out, so we’d be safe. Well, as safe as we ever had been.

I must have looked like I was in pain when I emerged from the deck, because Cally asked me what was wrong. Without thinking, I told her the truth – that my back was troubling me. As I said, I don't like to lie to Cally, nor is it a good idea. Unfortunately, in this case, telling her the truth wasn't a particularly good idea either, for obvious reasons.

“I’m not surprised. You’re not doing the stretches I recommended, are you?” Cally said. I wasn’t, but I _said_ I was. “You should rest now the situation with the sensors is under control.” Yes, she _was_ still banging that drum. Some people just can’t seem to let a thing go. “Or if the stretches alone aren’t having enough of an effect, perhaps it would be a good idea if you asked Blake––"

 _"No,"_ I said desperately, hearing Blake utter exactly the same denial at the same point.

Neither of us could bear the thought of Cally so much as finishing that sentence. Presumably it ended with me taking off my clothes, and Blake rubbing me for however long it took for me to feel better. Just thinking about it was bad enough.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vila exchange a look with Gan.

"Cally, who knows whether the pursuit ships following us managed to signal someone up ahead?" Blake said reasonably, though I could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. "I _have_ to stay on the flight deck."

“And I would rather die than allow Blake to touch me,” I said quellingly. “In contrast, a little back pain seems endurable enough.”

I was pleased with this comment – too harsh, perhaps. A sledgehammer to crack a nut, but it did the job.

Blake condescended to make eye contact with me at last, eyebrows raised. For a moment, I thought he would say something, but I’d judged correctly. He didn’t want the others to know what had happened any more than I did. He said nothing. I smiled. Cally sighed, and offered to rub my back herself if I thought I could tolerate her touch. I said yes, I thought I could, if it meant that much to her, and Cally and I left the flight deck together. I felt Blake’s eyes following me, but he didn’t say anything then either.

“Why are you angry with Blake?” Cally asked me as she began to knead the muscles in my shoulders a few minutes later. By this time, I was face down on one of the recliner couches, so I rolled my eyes, safe in the knowledge that she couldn’t see me.

So, that was why she’d offered to look after my back, was it? Not altruism, or a desire to see me without a shirt. I should have realised.

“Why not?” I said, rather than deny it. “Blake is not an easy man to get along with. Why aren’t _you_ angry with him? It’s not only _my_ advice he consistently ignores.”

“He doesn’t ignore anyone’s advice,” Cally said, choosing not to be distracted by a chance to talk about her own problems. “He considers everything we say carefully.”

“Right, he considers it, and then discards our views in favour of whatever it is he wants to do,” I said. “Personally, I’m not sure that’s better than simply ignoring us, but if it makes you happy to see him that way, be my guest.”

“Did something happen between the two of you last night?” Cally asked.

“No, not last night,” I said truthfully.

That shut down the conversation for a while. I let myself drift – the movement of her hands on my back was remarkably soothing. To tell the truth, I also found it a little arousing. Not noticeably, yet, and I was face down, but unless I thought of something else soon it might become a problem. Normally that would have embarrassed me. I don’t have any serious designs on Cally (though I’m not sure why. She’s exactly my type), and I didn’t think she’d welcome them even if I did. Right now, though, it was a relief to feel honest attraction towards a woman. Not, I hasten to add, that I was insecure in my sexuality as a result of the drunken fumble with Blake. There was, after all, no need to be. I’d been drunk, and he’d initiated the whole encounter. But still – it was very pleasant. Cally, _not_ the encounter.

I took a moment to thank whatever gods there were or might have been that Blake hadn’t taken Cally up on her suggestion that he be the one to massage my back. Oh, I’m sure he wanted to do it. He wanted _me,_ but he couldn’t risk it. I was safe. But it might still have gone differently. If Blake had asked me whether I was scared of him touching me, I would have had to have gone through with it. And then it would have been Blake’s hands pressing firmly into my lower back, his fingertips swirling across my skin, and undoubtedly (unlike Cally’s) sliding lower under the towel around my waist—

“What will you do when Blake attacks Central Control?” Cally asked, distracting me from my thoughts with _further_ discussion of the least welcome subject I could have conceived of. I was also now quite definitely aroused – all the blood had rushed from my head to my cock at some point. I was distracted, my thoughts fuzzy, and I was actively struggling not to rub myself off against the recliner.

“Will you truly refuse to go with us?” Cally said.

I have thought about it. We’ve all known Blake has been gearing up to attack the most heavily guarded computer-system in the entire Federated worlds, ever since we picked up Orac. The fact that he tried to hit the Weapons Development Base earlier this week was just confirmation of the inevitable. To defeat the Federation, Blake would need to defeat Control. And to attack such a computer, he would need a computer expert of surpassing skill. In other words, he would need _me_.

On the one hand, the job would almost certainly be suicide, and I knew that. On the other – well. That computer represents the greatest challenge in my profession. And I like the idea of Blake needing me. Or rather – no. I like thinking about what he might do to solicit my cooperation. I could ask for the Liberator herself and I expect he’d have to give it to me. I don’t really have any designs on the ship – the only people who would want to buy her, and could afford to buy her, would undoubtedly kill me rather than pay. Ensor was a genius, but hopelessly naive. Servalan was never going to hand over all that money. Still, I could probably think of something I wanted from Blake, if I put my mind to it.

I could have explained all this to Cally, but none of it was particularly flattering. In the end, I took the coward’s way out. I pretended I was asleep. Cally called my name twice, but clearly decided I could use the rest, and left me to it. Left me half-naked and glistening with oil, stretched out on a recliner.

 _Blake could walk in on me any minute,_ I thought, and felt my cock twitch in response.

I was getting off on the danger, of course. I was getting off on the idea of someone I didn’t like finding me in a compromising position. That _must_ be it. It had to be, because I rejected the alternative absolutely, and for good reason. Unlike Blake, I’m not gay, and if I were I wouldn’t be interested in Blake or anyone like him. Not that there are any other people like Blake. But he’s not even that handsome.

He’s also very obviously masculine – and significantly taller than me. People, looking at the two of us together (assuming we were together), would assume _I_ was the woman in our relationship. That would be almost as intolerable as the act itself. And it was certainly how Blake wanted to cast me. He didn’t want _me_ inside _him_. Unless, of course, he _did,_ and didn’t mention it …

Obviously, it doesn’t matter. It’s completely irrelevant, since I have no desire to fuck Blake, just as I have no desire for him to fuck me. But a principle can be discussed in isolation of desire. And on principle, I would hate for anyone to think I was effeminate, that I submitted to Blake, or anyone like him. On principle, I think I’d hate that even more than having Blake’s large, heavy cock pumping into my arse, the weight of his body pressing down …

 _Why_ was I still thinking about this?

I didn’t want to get up in case someone walked in as I was getting dressed, and saw what was now quite a substantial adrenalin erection. So I lay where I was, half-naked and glistening with oil. I lay there – and I tried _not_ to think about Blake walking in on me. I tried not to think about what he might do if he found me like that. 

It wasn’t as easy as I would have liked. In fact, it wasn’t easy at all.

*

I did escape the medibay eventually. Nobody came in. I calmed down, I got dressed, I walked out of there. Nothing had happened, and yet it felt to me as though it had. I felt unclean, as I had walking back to my cabin in the soiled red-leather trousers.

I returned to the flight deck where Blake was still pretending I didn’t exist. That suited me, so I ignored him in return. My watch began about thirty minutes after I arrived. That meant I had six further hours to endure before I could retreat again. It would be better if I didn’t have to spend any of that time talking to him.

Vila asked me whether I wanted to play Billet with him, but in my current state that seemed like a good way to lose quite a few credits so I declined. He tried to engage me in conversation about something or other, but I could tell I was missing most of the relevant points. Eventually I snarled at him that I was busy and he left me alone.

After a few hours, I noticed that Blake had fallen asleep on the flight-deck sofa, curled protectively over the force-wall controls. He must have been awake all night, as he doesn’t usually reach the point of complete exhaustion before the evening watches. Wracked with self-recrimination, presumably. I know what that can be like.

The others drifted away, rather than disturb him. They went to eat, or sleep, or wash, or talk to each other and laugh. I stayed, watched the monitors, and listened to the sound of Blake breathing. There was no other choice.

The Federation ships that had almost caught us during the sensor blackout were still on the very edge of the radar screen. Still following us, though it was obvious they wouldn’t get us now. That said, their continued pursuit meant we couldn’t stop. Presumably that was exactly their intention. However – despite Blake’s words of warning earlier, they hadn’t called anyone else in to intercept us, either. We’d been lucky. The attack commander didn’t want to share the reward for our capture, or perhaps there simply weren’t any other ships out this far. We were already right on the edge of the Spiral rim. Blake had been right – it was a good place to hide.

Eventually, even our three friends disappeared from the radar.

The point of being on watch is to provide a human eye to verify Zen’s pronouncements, and take action immediately if needed. You’re meant to watch the detector screens all the time, whether or not there’s anything on them. In practice, however, it’s difficult to show interest in a blank screen. Not that I would tell Vila anything of the kind.

I caught myself absently watching Blake, for something to do. He must have done the same with me a few nights ago, as I was passed out across the sofa, though he would have had to leave his position in order to see me properly. Blake, meanwhile, was sitting up. I could see his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck (pale between his dark curly hair, and the dark jacket) and the hand he was propping his head on. Not interesting, but more interesting than a vacant screen.

I didn’t choose consciously to get up and walk round the edge of the sofa to look at him, but for some reason I did it anyway. I suppose the back of his head wasn’t much more interesting than any empty screen.

He looked irritated, even in sleep. He looked exhausted. I suppose he was. He did not look like anyone I could or would be attracted to. Only moderately handsome; less handsome, in fact, in sleep. Large, male, irritating. Insufferable, really. I’ve always liked small, delicate women. Women I could protect, wrap myself around and keep us both safe from the rest of the universe. That’s not to say I like the wilting-flower type – on the contrary, I find that sort of thing rather off-putting. Meegat, for example, was never truly a temptation, for all that she was beautiful. I like women who seem delicate, but are hard on the inside – women who fight back, who have a sense of humour and an intellect equal to my own. They’re the ones who are worth protecting.

 _Cally_ is my type; Blake is … Well, he’s—

I don’t know why I’m not interested in Cally.

Blake must have felt me looking at him, or perhaps I made a noise – a shuddering of breath, I’m not sure. His eyes opened fast – too fast for me to take a step back and pretend I hadn’t been watching him. He started slightly as he saw me – one of the few times I have seen Blake look afraid, even if it was only for a moment. Of course, it was just surprise. Blake isn’t afraid of me – he’s proved _that_ often enough.

I suppose I should have been pleased to unsettle him. But I wasn’t, I don’t know why. I was more embarrassed than anything, another emotion I expect Blake rarely experiences.

“I need to get to the force-wall controls,” I lied, explaining away my presence and the fact that I’d disturbed him.

Blake unfolded himself from around the device I supposedly needed to access. I could see him shaking off his lethargy, pulling himself back together, becoming the Blake we all knew and … tolerated. 

“We’re not under attack?” he asked.

Obviously not.

“No,” I said. I didn’t need to explain myself any further because Blake, having gathered enough information to reassure himself that we were in no immediate danger, went back to ignoring me. He took over my position, and read the same reports that I’d seen earlier. He inspected the same blank screens.

I fiddled around with the force wall for a while without really achieving anything. It was in perfect working order, and anything I did to it was likely to take it further away from that state. Eventually I closed the maintenance hatch, and glanced behind me. Blake was in my chair. Normally I would have asked him to move, but Blake had set the mood in the room. I couldn’t speak to him, any more than he could speak to me.

I went to Vila’s chair instead. Blake waited a moment, and then returned to his seat on the couch and began checking the force-wall controls in case I’d broken them. I thought about telling him that I hadn’t. If I _had_ (highly unlikely, since I hadn’t done anything), he’d have to speak to me to tell me what was wrong (which, under the circumstances, was even less likely). I didn’t say anything. I returned to my own chair, and brought up the detector screen again. It was still blank.

Four hours later, Jenna relieved me of my watch. I’ve rarely been so pleased to see anyone in my life.

*

I doubt I would have considered anything of the sort if he hadn’t said it – _Avon might run._ Might I, indeed? I hadn’t thought about it since Cygnus Alpha all those months ago. Yes, I still had my list of bolt holes, but it was merely a set of back-up plans. I’d barely updated it since we’d acquired Orac. And I’d always imagined that if I ever chose to leave, I would be waved off by the entire crew.

Blake and the others are relatively hapless. Apt to get into trouble, Blake in particular. By now, saving him has become a habit I can’t break, so in other circumstances I would have gone down to Horizon as soon as it became clear the other rescue attempts had failed. Not my ideal way of spending an evening, no, but living with Blake is far from ideal as I’m sure you’ve gathered.

But with Blake’s words ringing in my ears … I did consider running.

The Liberator would be mine. Orac and I could run forever. I wouldn’t need to worry about the Federation, Central Control, Blake’s other plans, Blake— Oh yes, I considered it. After all, he’d dared me to, hadn’t he?

Actually, I don’t know whether he meant me to hear what he said or not. I expect he did – a twist of the knife. He couldn’t say, _Avon won’t let me fuck him and now I feel hard done by_ to Jenna; this was an effective shorthand for that grievance. _Avon might run_ neatly implied I was untrustworthy and a bastard, without going into specifics.

If he didn’t intend me to hear it, then it’s just about possible he meant it, but if he did mean it – well, then he would have had to ignore the numerous other occasions I’d put my neck on the line for him. Blake is certainly blinkered on some issues, but he’s not stupid. He is, in fact, highly intelligent. I asked Orac once, and discovered to my disgust that his IQ is officially bigger than mine. _Higher._ Higher than mine.

To come to the conclusion that I was untrustworthy he would have had to ignore almost a year’s worth of data. Therefore, he did not distrust me. He just wanted me to know he was annoyed.

Perhaps it seems unfair that I considered abandoning him because he was irritated. Well, yes, perhaps it was. Nevertheless – I considered it. I could be free of Blake, who was hardly showing himself in the best light at the moment. I could have the Liberator. I could have Orac.

But of course … I have no use for the Liberator, and I know that. It would be possible for me to fly her alone, but even I would get tired of that eventually. I would never have to see Blake again, true, but looking at him seemed a small price to pay for my soul. By which I mean, I’d rather look at him than leave him and the others to die in order to show Blake up, and so I wouldn’t have to go to Central Control. I wasn’t even against the idea of Central Control. Not entirely, anyway.

The problem _was_ that if I saved his life, I would prove myself trustworthy. That should be _good,_ that was what I wanted, but Blake had drawn the comparison between trust and sexual availability. If running was the equivalent of denying him sexually, then _not_ running, saving him, would surely equate to … the opposite. I could _not_ open that conversation again.

With that in mind, I tried to get Orac to justify my decision to stay as necessity. Petty, I know, but I had no other choice. I couldn’t tell Blake I’d saved him (Jenna, Vila, Cally, Gan) because I wanted to. Orac was being typically unhelpful, and I could feel myself panicking (trying mentally to justify my behaviour to Blake as selfish, as he moved to embrace me) when Zen announced the arrival of the exact number of pursuit ships that would require the full crew’s presence. Hilariously, I now had my reason.

Well – it seemed funny at the time. Perhaps you had to be there.

*

Blake's appearance, when I came across him outside the monopasium mines, was also fairly comical. He was stripped to the waist, dirty, and he was brandishing an axe like a weapon. He looked like the hero of a gay pornovid (an amusing contrast to his actual vocation) – but (more amusingly still) gone to seed. I haven't watched any of the vids in question, but I imagine the stars are men with rippling pectoral muscles, hard biceps ... Blake looked soft, his nakedness unflattering. He met my gaze for the first time in days, which meant he could see exactly how impressed I was.

If there had ever been any doubt about whether I found him physically attractive or not, this would have settled it. I no more wanted to lick Blake's chest, than I would–– _Not_ that I would have wanted to lick a pornovid star. Of either gender actually – you can never tell where they’ve been. A quality they share with Blake, I suppose.

Any lingering glances at Blake's smooth chest as we rounded up the others were incredulous, mocking glances. True, it was a relief when he put his shirt back on, but then – of course it was. It improved the view.

Although he didn't thank me (actually, he didn't thank me at all) for the rescue effort, something had definitely changed. From being unable, or at least – unwilling to look at me, Blake had switched to glaring at me whenever we were in the same room as each other. I'd found the silence tedious, but this wasn’t better.

Blake asked me to execute rather a complicated teleport exercise and spent the five minutes it took to do it leaning over the desk, his eyes fixed on me. It was effectively disconcerting, though it shouldn't have been. He acted as though he had a right to look at me now. Not that he was getting any pleasure from it – no, he was still angry at me, but he felt entitled to do it if he wanted to. And apparently he did want to. I had to concentrate to keep my breathing steady, to not lick my lips. This was not the time to show weakness.

But in the end, I had to tell him to stop distracting me. He'd been actively haranguing me at the time, and now fell silent, but he didn't go away.

He seemed to change his mind after that, though – barely able to look at me on the flight deck again. I tried to engage him on a reasonable point (whether or not he should have let the rest of us in on any potentially life-threatening or life-saving ideas he'd had – _highly_ reasonable, in my opinion) and he didn't so much as turn his head to dismiss me.

I stayed on deck for another few hours, and he didn't look at me once, though I asked him a few other things about Horizon. I wasn't interested in the planet, but since he'd just spent the better part of the day there, given that I suspected he’d brought us there on purpose, I thought perhaps he was. Perhaps he was – he just wasn't interested in talking to me about it.

I left, and went to pull apart one of the failover servers in the main computer room. I'd intended to re-build it after I was done, but after slotting the first few components back together I abandoned the whole thing and just re-routed the failover to another active cluster.

There isn't a great deal of point being on the Liberator if Blake refuses to acknowledge you. I’ve never asked Gan or Vila about it, but I imagine they don't have any better offers or they'd leave as soon as they got the chance. Blake chooses where we go, what we do. He doesn't often listen to me, but I’ve influenced him. I know I have. And I think that, if I'd ever truly objected to a destination, and given a reason, Blake would have reconsidered. Or perhaps I’m simply deluding myself. It’s possible, though I try to be as rational as possible about any situation.

Well, take the current situation, for example. If Blake was going to ignore me, there was no point in staying. An entirely rational judgement. The Central Computer was a challenge, but one I could live without. I could ask Jenna to drop me off on Freedom City (number 1 on my list of bolt holes) before she circled back to Earth. Freedom City is a gambling station – and I have some experience with gambling computers. I'd be rich before Blake had even reached the Forbidden Zone. Entirely rational.

It was a good opportunity. I would be free. I would never see Blake again. I would never hear him again – talking or laughing with other people, or watch as he ignored me in favour of other people. I would never touch him again— _Not_ that I ever did that on purpose. It would be a relief. More particularly, I would never be embroiled in his ridiculous schemes. Blake could take Control without me – or, well, no. Actually, I doubted he _could_ take Control without me. His strongest enemies would be the defence computers – neither he, nor Vila, would be able to do it alone. Perhaps _that_ would make him consider the plan more carefully. It might even save his life.

It was so obviously the right choice I’m not sure why I didn’t make it earlier.

I checked my chronograph – I’d been down here too long already. Now I’d made a decision I wanted to act on it immediately, leaving Blake behind, but I … didn’t want anyone to accuse me of making a mess in a fit of pique. So, I … spent a few minutes putting things back approximately where they’d been when I’d arrived. I checked my chronograph again (for no particular reason – it’s just a force of habit) and got to my feet. I left the computer room.

I had intended to walk back to the flight deck and tell Jenna she wouldn't need to tolerate my presence for much longer, but before I got there, I ran in ... well, I ran into Blake.

It was the end of his watch. I remember that now. But it was surprising, at the time, to see him there.

I let him pass me without speaking. I almost let him go completely, but then I found myself sneering, "Avon might _run.”_

Not very rational, but excusable. I suppose I wanted to let him know that I'd heard him earlier, that if either of us had the right to be irritated with the other, it was _me._ I turned back towards him and saw him turning too – good, I had his attention at last.

"I almost did, you know," I told him conversationally. “I almost ran.”

"I know," he said, walking towards me. " _Cally_ told me."

The inference was that _Cally_ was trustworthy. I felt a hot flare of anger. I’d intended to surprise him out of his complacency. Not merely to confirm the unfavourable reports other people had given him of me.

"Did she also tell you I thought you were dead?" I snapped. That was a mistake. I was clearly defensive – the harsh tone suggesting I was upset at being accused of no more than I had claimed myself. "Only an idiot would rescue a dead man."

"She told me," he said more gently. "So why did you?"

"You know why," I said, meaning ... the pursuit ships and the other thing that Cally had undoubtedly told him – that she'd assured _me_ that Blake and the others were alive.

This time I'd gone too far the other way with my voice, though – too quiet. Blake had intruded quite a long way into my personal space. The corridors aren't as well lit as the main living areas. It probably felt ... _intimate_.

"Three … pursuit ships," I clarified in case Blake was confused.

"Ah," Blake said. "Too many for you to reliably evade with computers flying the ship. You needed _Jenna_."

"Right," I said with a sharp grin.

"Or you would have," Blake said, "if there hadn't been a magnetised barrier around the planet that the pursuit ships didn't know about."

"True, but I didn't know ... that they didn't know about it. To even imagine such a thing––"

"You needed _me_ ," Blake said, eyes very dark and serious.

That wasn't how I would have finished that sentence. I'd been going to say that to imagine such a thing was foolhardy, bordering on insane. With no other options, Blake had been reasonable to _hope_ that the attack commanders did _not_ know about the barrier _._ It was _not_ reasonable to put his faith in it. I suspect Orac would have given a low enough probability that I wouldn't have considered trusting to their ignorance. Blake was pushing the thing a bit far, but to all intents and purposes he was right – he was the _only one_ who would have reached that exact conclusion, and reacted as he did.

So, I let him have that one.

"Well now, it's about time you started pulling your weight," I said.

Blake looked at me for a moment, and then he grinned. I watched it unfurling across his face, almost metastasising into a laugh, before he frowned suddenly. "You're not drunk, are you, Avon?"

I blinked. It was four in the afternoon, and I wasn’t _Vila_. “Why would I be?"

"Just ... checking," Blake said with a hint of another smile. He turned to go again, and then seemed to reconsider. “You know I _had_ considered using Horizon as a base.”

I _knew_ he’d been lying about stumbling across the planet. I could have picked up on it, but that would have shut this conversation down as fast as it had begun. I hadn’t wanted to speak to Blake when I’d left the computer room, but here we were, brought together by fate – and I thought … he might be asking for my opinion, after all.

“Had,” I said. “Past tense.”

“Mm,” Blake said. He leant against the corridor wall next to me, and caught at his lower lip with the fingers of his right hand. “Too remote.”

“You knew that before you brought us here,” I pointed out – taking the opportunity to call him on his deception.

“True,” Blake agreed. He looked (gratifyingly) almost sheepish, though more than that – he was pleased with himself. Well, he’d got away with it, hadn’t he? I hadn’t stopped him.

“What’s changed?”

“They have more than enough of their own problems,” he said eventually. That wasn’t it – if I had to hazard a guess I’d say Blake, like any mortal man, was unwilling to make a home of a place where, by all accounts, he’d been tortured and left to die in a radioactive mine. Obscurely, I think I hoped he would confide this in me. Why, I don’t know. 

“You knew that before you arrived, too,” I said.

“You think I should reconsider?”

There it was. I felt an unreasonable flare of pleasure at the question, though it was hardly a question. Blake had also, very clearly, made up his mind already. He was throwing me a bone with only the barest covering of meat. For a moment, I considered telling him he should reconsider. A test, if you like. But I didn’t want to spend any more time on Horizon than we already had.

“No, I don’t think you should reconsider. The planet’s too remote to be of any use as a base.” A disappointing conclusion, but fortunately I did have something else to offer him. “I do think you should think about whether or not we need a base, though. The Liberator can already house more people than we have, and she’s more defensible than a ground base. You’re trying to solve two problems, Cally’s need for us to rest, and your own need to increase our martial assets, with the same solution. When in fact Cally would be satisfied with a week by the sea, and you with fifty large, heavily armed soldiers.”

At this point, I stumbled slightly – Blake, a homosexual man, probably would be _satisfied_ by a group of heavily muscled fanatics – highly loyal, highly … vigorous. I don’t think I flushed as this idea presented itself to me, but I doubt Blake would have noticed even if I had.

His entire face had lit up for a moment and I thought he might— But he was too distracted. His eyebrows had already come down in thought. I’d given him an idea – and not the same one that I’d just had about the vigorous mercenaries. Nor, I expect, was it an idea for a beach holiday. A pity – I wouldn’t have minded that one.

“You’re right,” Blake said, mostly to himself. “What we _need_ is a distraction, and with the right people––”

He put a hand on my shoulder, and said the words, “Thank you, Avon,” before he left in the direction of the flight deck, but I’d effectively been forgotten, and I knew that. Someone else might have been offended, but I knew Blake too well for that. That he’d remembered to thank me at all, when all his brain must be screaming at him to focus on the revolution, was something. I also don’t offend easily. And as long as Blake took my opinions into consideration, I didn’t much care how he treated me as a person.

I turned back to my room. There was no point in going on to the flight deck to speak to Jenna – Blake would be there for at least the next several hours. And he wouldn’t tolerate a deviation to whatever course he’d chosen.

Besides, what I’d said to Blake was true – the Liberator was more defensible than any ground base. On Freedom City, I’d be exposed, as likely to die at the hand of a Terra Nostra enforcer, jealous gambling rival, as I would be to be spotted by a bright Federation space captain on shore leave. And the contents of the Liberator treasure room must amount to more than I could reasonably win before someone noticed I was getting too lucky …  

A highly rational counter argument to the one I’d made earlier. The fact that Blake had consulted me about his plans for a base on Horizon _did_ factor into my decision, but it was a minor factor at best. As Blake would have said, I played the percentages. This time they were in his favour. I resigned myself to staying, and to—

No. I’m sorry. I just—

I _wanted—_

None of that _rational_ explanation is true. None of it.

*

I doubt I would have realised I was in love with him if we had managed to take Control as planned. That sounds ridiculous, but I’d demonstrated a remarkable capacity for self delusion thus far – I’m certain I could have maintained it in the chaos that would have followed our success. Minutes or hours of complex technical work with Blake undoubtedly breathing down my neck, a brief surge of pleasure (ruthlessly suppressed) as Blake congratulated me, and then systems shutting down across the galaxy. The Federation scrambling for control. Blake being hailed as a visionary leader by politicians and petty crooks in every system. The Liberator left to me as I had asked, so that he could more effectively coordinate work on Earth. I would have felt bereft, but there would be ways of explaining it to myself. I’m exceptionally clever, if not quite as clever as Blake. I would have been able to lie to myself about almost anything in the right circumstances.

But I genuinely thought we were going to die beneath the Forbidden Zone. As a trap, it was foolproof, which was fortunate really, for Travis, since he’s hardly the sharpest tool in the box. 

There was one exit, and Travis had blocked that with mutoids. We had no bracelets, which in any case we could never have used. We were too far underground. Buried, very effectively.

And it was entirely Blake’s fault. Vila, Gan and I were there because _he_ had insisted on it. _He_ had pushed us to go ahead with it even after we’d learned that Kasabi and her men (I don’t blame myself for the failure of that one) had been captured. _He_ was the reason I was going to die. And, I won’t lie (not again) – I was furious.

But it was worse for him.

Because Blake … Well, _Blake_ had convinced himself that this would be the end. Like I said, in some ways he’s no better than a child. He’d thought that, after today, people across the galaxy would be free. Even with the truth staring him in the face, I don’t think he realised what had happened until I told him. He’d been so certain _._ He’d wanted it so much, worked so hard to make it happen, and instead we’d accomplished nothing. Less than nothing. We’d simply handed ourselves over to Servalan and her dog.

Blake sank to the ground as the full reality of the situation hit him, his legs unable to bear him any longer, and I followed him. I think I had some vague idea of continuing to harangue him for killing us all, but what I actually did was hold him. Tightly. Because he was devastated, and I wanted to protect him. I’ve always known he was worth protecting.

As I supported him, I realised I could smell his hair, I could smell _him –_ the tang of his anxious sweat mingling with his leather jerkin. He’d been wearing the same clothes the night we’d had sex, and he smelled the same. Travis came in at some point, and Blake grabbed me by the front of my jacket as though he was going to rip it off me. And I … hoped he would. In front of Travis and the mutoids, and Gan and Vila. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But then, I thought I was going to die. Things become very clear at that point. And it was very clear to me, suddenly, that Blake was more important to me than anything else in my life.

No, I’m still being coy. That’s not quite it. Not entirely. It’s true that I was in love with Blake – I think I probably always had been – but what was even clearer to me was that I was also desperate for him to fuck me properly before I died. I think I’d been fantasising about it for days in between periodic bouts of self-disgust. I not only wanted Blake’s respect, and for him to laugh at my jokes and to feel happier after speaking to me or at least as though his ideas had been appropriately challenged, I also wanted to know what it would be like to have his large, fat cock (the same cock I’d had in my hand just a few days before) pushing inside me. A part of Blake, thick and hard, inside my body, for no other reason than to bring me pleasure, bullying it out of me. The idea was still terrifying and it was certainly still disgusting, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want it. I wanted it. 

I’d been unable to concentrate all week, my mind bent on Blake and how precisely he wasn’t screwing my brains out. Well, now I had him in my arms, and we were both about to die, and if it had to be in front of Travis, Vila and Gan – I would live with that. Or at least – I would live with that until neither of us had to live with anything else, which looked like it might well be very soon, all things considered.

I think I was comforting myself with the idea that they would probably put the two of us in the same cell when Jenna and Servalan arrived. I say, I think, because everything was very hazy at that point. By then, I’d convinced myself that I was definitely going to die and that only mindblowing sex with Blake remained for me. It took me a while to understand that we were being rescued, then it all snapped back into focus. I would think about Blake later, _if_ we survived.

The problem was – the teleport bracelets didn’t work underground, and we were a long way underground. The trap still had us. I ran – the unsophisticated solution to any problem. The others followed; Travis close behind.

Would we have got out if he hadn’t brought the roof down between us and our pursuers? I don’t know. It certainly helped.

And so we survived Control, as we had survived IMIPAK and everything else Servalan had thrown at us. Not all of us, but statistically speaking it was still a win. 

I’m aware how callous that sounds. But better him than me. Better him than Vila, or Jenna. Better him than Blake. I didn’t know Gan well, nor did he do anything aboard the Liberator that someone else couldn’t do a hell of a lot better. I’m sorry he’s dead – I really mean that. But at least Blake got out. There was a moment when Jenna pointed out that he and Gan were missing. Just a moment, but I thought he hadn’t made it. I thought I’d been too desperate to save myself and I hadn’t even noticed.

I don’t know what I would have done if Blake hadn’t reappeared. I barely ate for weeks after I heard about Anna. Looking back, it’s clear I wanted to die too. So, yes, I’m glad it was only Gan. And that it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Blake.

Nobody spoke more than absolutely necessary once we returned to the ship. The flight deck emptied almost immediately. Blake, interestingly, was among the first to go – I don’t think he could bear his own company. Cally offered to keep watch, and the rest of us retreated to our own separate cabins.

I attempted to mourn, as I imagined the others were doing, but my head was full of Blake. Well, naturally. But my thoughts were slightly more civilised now that imminent death no longer seemed likely.

There was no going back. I’d admitted I loved him, if only to myself, and I’d admitted that I wanted him to … oh yes, I wanted him to …  Well, I’m sure you know by now what I wanted Blake to do to me. But I no longer wanted him to … do any of _that_ to me … in front of Vila, and – other bystanders.

There was, you see, a future again, now. In that future, people would judge me based on the way that I acted and had acted in the past. Bad enough that I would henceforth be judged as queer as Blake – maybe they would even think of me as _more_ queer, due to the disparity between our looks. Other men would look at me and assume I would be easily beaten, that because I’d submitted to Blake in some way, I would roll over for them too. They wouldn’t envy me – in fact, they’d be more likely to be vaguely disgusted. I can’t say that I blame them. It disgusts me, just … not entirely.

All of that I would have to live with, if I wanted to be with Blake. But what I would _not_ allow was for anyone to think I was driven by my emotions. I am nothing if not logical. My entire professional image is based on that construction of myself. I would not let anyone, even Blake, know that the only thing I’d thought about in (what I’d imagined to be) my dying moments had been him, rather than a way to get out of the situation.

I was also fairly keen that nobody ever find out that I’d considered willingly indulging in _public_ homosexual intercourse. Even the thought of it now made me shudder. But it was all right – it hadn’t happened.

And as for being … _gay_ – well, nothing had happened yet either. Nothing … except for that time on the flight deck, and both of us had already agreed never to talk about that again. That meant it might as well not have happened. I was in love with Blake and I desired him, but I didn’t need to act on it. I could just continue to take a lot of cold showers. Or I could try and find a woman to sleep with. Jenna and Cally were obviously non-viable, but they weren’t the only women in the universe.

I considered it (any woman, anyone else at all), and I considered the cold showers. And then I considered the idea of Blake leaning towards me, his shirt open and his fingers rubbing against his bottom lip. I considered pushing his hand away, and kissing him, climbing onto his lap and shoving my tongue down his throat as I ripped his—

 _Not_ that I needed to start that again. I got to my feet and began pacing the cabin before the fantasy got any more involved. 

Perhaps Blake and I could pretend we weren’t sleeping together. No – Blake would never agree to it, and I didn’t think I was that much a coward. If I were sleeping with him, I might as well admit it.

And I _could_ sleep with him, if I wanted to. He’d made it very clear that he desired me and that I could have him, if I wanted to. For sex, at least.

Actually, that thought did make me pause. I’d been imaging that Blake and I would be together, as well as having sex regularly, but come to think of it he’d never explicitly made the former offer. Only the latter. Would he want to? He certainly liked the way I looked. And from time to time I’ve imagined that he didn’t entirely dislike me, perhaps that he preferred me to any of the others, but that’s not exactly difficult. I’m not an easy man to get along with. I can see why people find me attractive, but I can also see why people (sometimes the same people) don’t like me. I behave both better and worse towards Blake than I do to almost anyone else – in general, I’m inconsistent. If I’d ever thought about it, I’d have said Blake was looking for someone steady, someone who believed in his revolution, someone who would support him unquestioningly. A Meegat, perhaps. A Gan _–_ horrible thought that though is.

I’m not a Gan. I’m certainly not a Meegat. Hopefully I never would be. So, if that was what Blake really wanted – I could perhaps change his mind. Why not? I’d proved that was possible. A more tempestuous relationship must seem more exciting––

Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. I had no proof that Blake didn’t want to be in a relationship with me. What I did know that was I wanted Blake to fuck me, and that he had been willing to do so only a few days before. I’d upset him with the way I’d reacted to his initial proposition, that was understandable, but now I’d had time to think it over. We’d forgiven each other. It was time to start again.

I could go to him right now. I knew where he was. In his cabin, perhaps even now sitting on his bed, chastising himself for what he’d done wrong at Control. Was it selfish to intrude on his pain? I didn’t think so. He doesn’t do well on his own, any idiot can see that. I would … be a comfort to him. And sleeping with me would almost certainly be a welcome distraction from his thoughts. He’d feel better after sex, more able to carry on, and he would need to carry on now, more than ever, as we had no idea where Control had been moved to. We’d have to start looking for it, which meant Blake couldn’t afford to be depressed for long. We’d have to have sex fairly regularly to truly improve his mood. I was selflessness itself.

So, what was I waiting for? It was what I wanted, and it was a good idea. But I couldn’t make myself reach for the door-release button, knowing I would open the door, walk down the corridor to Blake’s cabin and tell him I wanted to sleep with him. Even though he was a sure thing, at least from a sexual perspective, it would be awkward. What words would I use? Perhaps no words would suffice. If I began taking off my clothes Blake would surely get the idea – but could I just take my clothes off in front of Blake? I’d never imagined myself making the first move.

But since I’d effectively stopped him from making another move on me again, I would have to. I reached for the door release – and pulled my hand away before I touched it.

Should I get changed? Into something easier to remove, perhaps. No – there was a pleasing symmetry in the fact that I was wearing the red leather again. The red leather that I’d hypothesised Blake liked. Perhaps I would find out if he did. But to do that I would have to _leave the room._ I span away from the door, teeth bared in a snarl that nobody else would see. What was wrong with me?

Clearly, I was nervous, panicked – I would not make a good impression on Blake. Therefore I needed to make myself _less_ nervous or we would never get anywhere.

I had not been nervous the night that we’d slept together, which was clearly a result of the two or three glasses of alcohol I’d consumed before he’d kissed me. Fortunately, I had a bottle of scotch in my room, something I’d been saving for a special occasion, and had (astonishingly) managed to successfully hide from Vila. This was a special occasion. Gan was dead; meanwhile I was seriously considering sodomy.

I poured myself a respectable glass, and picked it up. Then put it down again, and more than doubled the amount of liquid in the tumbler. I drank the whole thing, neat, gasping as the alcohol hit the back of my throat, and poured another glass. Not the way to drink good alcohol, but there was nothing else for it.

After another two glasses, I felt steadier. This time, when I reached for the door button I actually pressed it. The door swished open, and I stepped out into the corridor, cocooned in the warmth surrounding my brain. As I’d noted before, Blake’s room wasn’t too far from my own. I didn’t see anyone as I walked there.

By this time, I knew what I had to say to him. _Blake, I’m sorry. You were right – I was afraid. I lied to myself, and I hurt you, which was not my intention. I would like us to start again, if you’ll have me because it turns out that I’m in love with you. I think I always have been, and you’re very good with your tongue._ That last part would make him laugh, as well as giving him ideas.

Before I zoned out in front of Blake’s cabin, I rapped smartly on the door. The seconds crawled by. I considered knocking again, but that seemed a bad idea. Too keen. Although wasn’t that what I was trying to do?

“If we’re not under attack, you can go away,” Blake’s voice said from inside.

“We’re under attack,” I said.

The door slid open. Blake stood in the frame – he looked dreadful (his face puffy, and his eyes red and blotchy), and of course infinitely desirable.

“What do you want, Avon?” he said flatly.

There was an obvious answer to that. But it felt far _too_ obvious. A line, rather than the truth. And it was too early – I hadn’t had a chance to explain anything.

“Can I talk to you inside?”

Blake looked as though he was going to refuse, but his resistance had been worn down by the events of the day. He didn’t want a fight, so he stepped back and let me in. I watched him sink back down onto the bed where he must have been sitting or lying before I arrived, staring at nothing as far as I could see.

That was where I should have begun to explain myself, but despite the alcohol in my veins, I … couldn’t. Yet. Given _time,_ I would explain everything, but I didn’t _have_ time. Blake prompted me impatiently.

“If you’ve come to tell me what a hash I made of everything down there, trust me – it isn’t necessary.”

I shifted my gaze from the dusty top of Blake’s dresser, back towards the wall behind his head. “No,” I said, “Blake, that isn’t—”

“I know I should have turned back as soon as we learned Kasabi was captured,” Blake continued as though he hadn’t heard me. “But I _had_ to try. I know that decision led to Gan’s death,” his voice cracked, “I _know_ I’m responsible—”

“Blake,” I said, trying to stop him before he broke down completely. “Blake—”

What I’d planned to say seemed so self-centred, but I didn’t have anything else. He was right – his decisions had indeed led to Gan’s death, but he was also right that it had been worth the attempt. If the computer has been there, we could have controlled the entire Federation from a single room. Or we could have thrown the civilised galaxy into chaos. It was one hell of a risk, but everyone had accepted it for (at least some of) the same reasons I had. In other words, Blake had made the right decision. But he knew that, and it didn’t help.

Helplessly, without quite knowing what I was doing, I dropped to my knees in front of him, bringing the two of us to the same level. Blake looked up at me, but otherwise didn’t respond as I took his head between my hands, let my eyelashes flicker shut, and pressed a kiss against his lips. A mark of fealty – a mark of _love_ , rather than desire. He had made the decision that had killed our crewmate, true, but it was a decision I supported. I supported _him_.

I felt like a fool, as I did it. I don’t make big gestures as a rule. I really don’t know what made me do it. Desperation, I suppose. A need to do something. And I suppose, it felt like no less than he deserved. I’ve done plenty of things for Blake that have made me uncomfortable – this was just another in a long line. Though it was different, too.

My heartbeat hammered inside my head as I drew back. Blake stared at me for a moment, and then his face seemed to crumple.

“Avon—” he began, and I kissed him again – this time, more fiercely because I could tell that, if I let him finish speaking, he would begin to weep. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for himself – I wanted him to realise that he had _so much_ left to live for.

I pulled his head down towards me, pushing my body up to meet his, and pushing my tongue deep into his mouth. Blake isn’t passive, even when he’s distraught – and he had been desperate for me only a few days before. Nothing had changed there. He gripped me back, gratifying hard, and dragged me up onto the bed. I felt his tongue push back against mine, and then past my teeth into my mouth, taking control as I’d known he would. A roll of Blake’s shoulder carried me onto my back, Blake on top of me. I clutched, indecorously, at his hair and his back as one of his hands smoothed down my front, over my cock and he continued to raid my mouth with his tongue. As I’d remembered, Blake is a very good kisser. In that moment, I’d say I was in heaven.

That was my mistake – to think that good things happened to me. They have done, occasionally, but either I didn’t realise how good they were while they were happening (take the first time Blake and I had sex, for example), or I did – and so was appropriately devastated when they were ripped away days or hours or minutes later.

Mid fumble, Blake drew back. He didn’t look tragic any more; he looked almost dangerous. Exceptionally handsome, in other words.

“I can taste alcohol in your mouth.”

It wasn’t a question – Blake had his own evidence, and didn’t need my confirmation, but I assumed he did require some sort of response, an explanation, presumably. But there was no way I was going to tell him that I’d been afraid of him, that I’d needed to get half-drunk before I could fail to proposition him.

“One of our crewmates has just died. It seemed appropriate.”

That was another mistake – Blake flinched at the reminder. He stood up.

“No,” he said, moving as far away from me as possible into the opposite corner of the room, just as he’d done the last time I’d been here. “Not again, and not _now_. I don’t need this.”

“On the contrary—” I began, propping myself up on my elbows, but Blake was too quick for me. No longer tragic, he was incandescent with anger.

“Oh no, you will _not_ use me again.”

“Use _you_?” I was getting angry myself now. Blake was ruining what should have been an easy meeting of objectives – both of us wanted to sleep with the other. We’d been progressing in exactly the right direction. My cock was still throbbing against my too-tight trousers – trousers that I’d only worn because I thought he might enjoy them. “That would be a novelty. One of us is regularly used by the other. It isn’t you.”

“Are you saying you think I _owe_ you?”

“You admit it then?” I said, getting to my feet. A stock response, a stock accusation – he was using us all. The alcohol had dampened my wits. I could have come up with something better if I hadn’t drugged myself enough to get here. I felt almost confused. This was so far away from how I’d imagined the evening going.

“Of _course_ I don’t admit it,” Blake snarled. “Though I’d rather you accused me of using your skills to further the revolution, than of raping you again. I’d even rather you accused me of killing Gan – that at least would be true.”

I probably should have denied that he was responsible for Gan’s death – that’s why I was there, after all, but I couldn’t. I’d assumed Blake had forgiven what was merely a misunderstanding, but he’d been holding it against me all this time. I assumed he’d allowed for weakness, as I allowed for it in him, without him having to explain himself. I’d assumed he’d have been able to see the difference in these two liaisons – this time I had come to _him._ But to him, that just looked like a meditated crime.

He hadn’t understood anything that had happened. I’d kissed him to show love and loyalty, I’d faced my own demons in order to come to him, to comfort _him –_ and in all that he’d read nothing. No, worse than nothing – a tawdry snare.

“That’s what you think I’m going to do, is it?” I said.

I could feel myself closing in on myself, my voice hardening into dislike. A defensive mechanism. Anger or, worse, despair would look weak. And of course, I could have explained myself – I could have told him everything I’d planned to tell him, but I no longer wanted to. The elation I’d felt before, the need to be with Blake, was gone. Perhaps it would return later, I didn’t know, but what I did know was that right now I hated him – he’d witnessed me trying to do something good and assigned me the worst possible motives. He’d seen my desire for him and ridiculed it, crushed it. And he’d done it casually.

What must his opinion of me be? And to think, I’d genuinely thought he liked me better than someone like Gan.

“Isn’t it?” Blake said. He’d came closer to glare at me more effectively. “You’ve liquored yourself up again very effectively, Avon. The perfect alibi – you don’t need to take any responsibility for your actions. Then you waited until I was emotionally vulnerable and most likely to make another mistake. And it nearly worked – you must be very pleased.”

“Funny. I don’t feel pleased.”

“Well, you didn’t get what you want,” Blake said. “Cowards don’t, though. So you should be prepared for disappointment, Avon. A lifetime of it.”

I let my eyes shut, just for a second, so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Then I opened them again, and raised my chin. “You’ve called me that once before – it isn’t true.”

“No? Well, either you’re either a coward, or this is some sort of mutiny bid. Going to tell everyone I’m a murderer _and_ a rapist? That they should hand over the Liberator to you? Well, forget it.”

I should have run. I should have left him on Horizon to rot as he deserved. My chest felt empty, and my throat as though I was suffocating. I would not admit to cowardice - I'd just returned from an almost suicidal mission into the most heavily guarded computer complex in the galaxy. Just one of many such missions I'd engaged in for Blake. And I'd come here, to his room, to comfort him, to sleep with him, even though the idea of doing so terrified me. I am many things, but I'm not a coward.

So, why not lie? It had worked before.

I made myself smile, and hold up my hands, as though in surrender. “You got me.”

For a long slow moment, we glared at each other.

“Get out,” he said quietly.

“Gladly,” I said, hearing my voice crack but unable to stop it. I wanted to say more, to hurt him in return, but the crack would only grow bigger and more obvious. I wouldn’t give Blake the satisfaction. So I left, stumbling from the room into the corridor. 

My own cabin was close, but not close enough. I couldn’t stand the idea of running into Jenna or Vila and having to explain myself. But there was a supply cupboard only a few metres along. I opened it, stepped inside, and let the door swish closed behind me.

It was dark, and close. I fought to control my breathing. How stupid. It was nothing. I was fine. I was alive, unlike Gan; and I didn’t think I was responsible for his death, unlike Blake. I hadn’t failed, I had just been mistaken. I was fine. I was fine. Or I would be.

It was better this way, actually. I’d never liked the idea of being with another man, and now I wouldn’t have to be. I could find someone better suited to me, someone who didn’t despise the very ground I walked on. A women, presumably. Yes, that would be a relief.

What had I really imagined Blake and I would _do_ together? I’d intended to marry Anna, to have children. Blake was a dead end. I’d fancied myself in love with him because I’d thought we were going to die. I’d been mistaken – twice.

I stayed where I was, until I could no longer hear my breath rattling in my throat. Then I returned to my room. I hung my clothes up in the wardrobe. I took a long, very cold shower, and I resolved to think no more of Blake. After all, he thought nothing of me.


End file.
